Chapter 1
The ballroom shimmered with opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow on the elegantly dressed guests, their laughter and conversation blending with the soft melody of a string quartet. The air was fragrant with roses and expensive perfume, tinged with the faintest aroma of champagne. It was an evening of celebration—a picture-perfect marriage, a testament to love and success.
At the center stood Isabella Marsden, the woman every woman envied. She moved with effortless grace, the ivory gown clinging perfectly to her figure. The diamonds at her throat caught the light, scattering tiny prisms across the polished marble floor. Her long, dark hair cascaded over one shoulder, framing a face that wore a flawless mask of happiness. Tonight, she was the embodiment of perfection: the devoted wife, the admired socialite, the woman who seemingly possessed everything.
Across the room, Adrian Marsden held court, his presence commanding attention. In a fitted black tuxedo, he was striking—sharp-featured, confident, devastatingly handsome. People gravitated towards him, eager for his every word. He smiled easily, laughing at a business associate's joke, then—his eyes found Isabella.
For a fleeting moment, their gazes locked. He smoothly raised his glass in a silent toast. To the world, they were a love story etched in gold—untouchable, enviable, a fairytale brought to life.
But Isabella alone knew the truth. Her fingers tightened around her champagne flute, the cold glass a stark contrast to the storm raging within. She hadn't been meant to know. The messages, photographs, and financial transactions—proof of her husband's betrayal—were not meant to be in her possession. The name Celeste Laurent now twisted her stomach. Celeste had always been a part of their world, another socialite, another face in the endless sea of privilege; beautiful, poised, seemingly harmless. Or so Isabella had believed.
The images she'd uncovered revealed a different story: Adrian's hand over Celeste's at an intimate dinner, a weekend retreat disguised as business, a luxury apartment purchased by Marsden Enterprises. The most devastating discovery? A DNA test revealing twins—his children, not hers.
The knowledge hit her like a freight train, shattering the illusion she'd so carefully constructed. She should have confronted him, demanded answers; screamed, cried—done anything but what she had done. She had smiled.
A warm hand encircled her waist, pulling her close. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and dark spice—once so familiar and comforting, now only churned her stomach.
"Happy anniversary, sweetheart," Adrian murmured, his lips brushing her temple.
Isabella turned, met his gaze, and lifted her chin. He kissed her softly, and the crowd applauded. She smiled. But inside, she felt nothing but the suffocating weight of betrayal.
"Happy anniversary," she whispered back.
Adrian's grip tightened slightly as he observed her. "You look breathtaking tonight. I can't take my eyes off you."
Did he say the same words to Celeste? Did he hold her like this? Make her feel as though she were the only woman in the world? The thought sickened her.
"Dance with me," Adrian said, his voice smooth as silk.
She hesitated briefly before allowing him to lead her to the center of the ballroom. The music shifted to a tender love ballad. They moved effortlessly, a picture of a devoted couple. To the world, they were perfect. To Isabella, it was a cruel joke.
A hollow ache settled deep within her, but she suppressed it. She couldn't break. Not tonight. Not here. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Their marriage had been a symbol of power, a perfect union between two influential families. Adrian had been the devoted husband, charming and attentive, making her believe—for a time—that their love was real. He had given her everything: security, admiration, the illusion of love. And now, he had taken it all away.
"You're quiet," Adrian murmured, his thumb caressing the back of her hand. "Are you happy, Bella?"
The voice that once comforted her now sent shivers down her spine.
She offered a soft laugh, effortlessly masking the turmoil within. "Of course."
His smile was practiced, easy—but something flickered in his eyes; a hesitation. Did he suspect? Did he know she knew?
She held his gaze, her fingers tracing the back of his neck in a practiced gesture of intimacy—a lie disguised as affection.
"I was just thinking," she said, her voice smooth as honey, "about how much I love you."
Adrian grinned, but Isabella saw through the illusion. The dance ended, and the guests applauded. He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her knuckles. She should have felt something. But all she felt was cold.